


Have a Safe Trip

by Elster



Series: M/L pwp [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, PWP, Workplace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-24
Updated: 2012-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-31 16:39:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elster/pseuds/Elster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft makes time to say bye to Greg. A good opportunity to have sex in an office chair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Have a Safe Trip

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/14370.html?thread=87566114#t87566114

The soft knock on his office door is loud in the silence of the building and it startles Greg into two realisations.

One, it's a lot later than he realised. The surrounding office rooms are empty and eerily lit by the sickly green glow of the emergency exit signs and the scarce light coming from his own desk lamp.

Two, Mycroft Holmes is standing in his door. He hasn't seen the older Holmes since their rather memorable encounter last week. 

Greg sits up and his shoulders crack in protest at him being hunched over files for so long. Mycroft winces in sympathy. He looks as gorgeous as ever, long slender limbs flawlessly wrapped in a dark brown suit.

"Your secretary told me you aren't in the country tonight." Greg tries not to sound reproachful. They are both busy men, so two failed attempts at planning dinner together doesn't necessarily indicate a lack of goodwill, but it makes a man suspicious.

"She prefers 'personal assistant'," Mycroft says mildly and picks a bit of lint from his sleeve, "and my flight goes in two hours. Not quite enough time for dinner, I'm afraid, but..." He leaves the end of that sentence delicately open and looks up, straight into Greg's eyes. His smile, in contrast to his words, is not delicate at all.

Greg swallows thickly and tries to figure out if he's fallen asleep at his desk or if Mycroft Holmes has suddenly appeared in his office and is proposing a quick shag. His aching back suggests the latter to be true, but experience in these matters supports the former theory.

There might be some kind of answer expected, but when it isn't given, Mycroft closes the door behind him, loosens his tie a bit and shrugs out of his jacket. He hangs it over the chair in front of the desk.

Greg's always found that there is something irresistible about a man in a waistcoat. Something about the way it hugs the body without concealing a great deal. 

Then Mycroft slips out of his shoes and socks with almost business-like efficiency and removes his trousers and underwear in a few swift movements. It should look ridiculous, the way his erection peeks through between his shirttails, but Greg feels a wave of hot desire at the sight.

"Anyone ever told you that sex with you is kind of surreal," he asks thickly as he watches Mycroft taking the few steps around his desk.

"Not in those words, I don't think." 

Mycroft leans at the edge of the surface, only an armlength away and Greg allows himself to reach out and run a hand over the fine herringbone pattern from Mycroft's side over his chest to his shoulder, where he pressed insistently down to pull him into a kiss. Mycroft leans in a bit, Greg's chair rolls some inches across the floor.

It's not a blatantly forceful kiss, none of Mycroft's kisses have been, but there's something unrelenting about it. This one is urgent and a bit playful, but there's no question that Mycroft is in control. Greg is on board with that, he lets himself be pressed into the seat, head tipped back over the headrest, Mycroft looming over him, nimble hands loosening the tie around his exposed throat and opening some buttons of his shirt.

Greg runs his hands through Mycroft's hair, down his back to the nice curves of his buttocks and tries to pull him closer. His chair shifts more than Mycroft, who only straightens up so he's no longer leaning against the desk. 

He breaks the kiss and one of his hands settles on the backrest, right next to the back of Greg's neck, keeping the chair tilted. Mycroft's thumb is caressing his nape softly, eliciting shivers.

His other hand trails down Greg's body, purposefully nearing his crotch, cupping him through his trousers. But before the caresses can become teasing, Mycroft is opening the button and sliding down the zip. He pulls on the fabric and Greg lifts up a bit until he is exposed, not entirely hard yet, but definitely on the way.

Mycroft leans closer, one knee resting on the seat between Greg's legs, his elbow heavy on the backrest, his hand now free to slide into Greg's hair and tilt his head. A short kiss to the mouth that leaves him wanting, then that clever mouth trails along his jaw, mapping out his neck, latching on to that soft place behind his ear.

Greg can't suppress the groan and tries to concentrate on what his own hands are doing, which is nothing much to be honest. Incoherent groping of Mycroft's arse at the moment, but he's determined to fix this. He shifts one to Mycroft's hip to help steady him and uses his right hand to stroke his cock in an unhurried rhythm.

"I'll ride you till you can't sit in this chair without thinking of me," Mycroft growls into his ear. 

"Hell yes," Greg manages and is startled by a soft bite to his earlobe that has him far too close to coming for a few seconds.

Mycroft takes Greg's hand and pulls it around to his hole, circling it, their index fingers aligned. It's already slick and both fingers slip in easily. Greg sags as all strength seems to leave him for a moment.

"When-?" He groans. "God, Mycroft, you're killing me."

The bastard just chuckles and licks along Greg's collar bone. "Fuck me already."

They have to shift a bit to make it work, the chair is broad, but not exactly made for this. The naked skin of Greg's thighs is sticking to the fake leather and the chair creaks in protest. When they are both settles, Greg's legs are pressed together by Mycroft's. The armrests must be uncomfortably digging into his legs, but on the upside, he doesn't have to worry about sliding off the chair.

Greg clutches at Mycroft's hips to help him keep his balance and watches as he sinks himself down on Greg's cock. Mycroft's hands are on his shoulders, pressing Greg down into the seat, steadying himself, his arms on both sides of his head, his face burying in Greg's hair. He's surrounded by Mycroft's hot breath and scent and touch everywhere. He feels hemmed in and it is fantastic.

Then he has taken Greg all the way in, Mycroft shifts slightly, settles, and they groan in unison. They can't move too much, not with the chair swivelling and rolling with every forceful motion they make, but Mycroft finds a gentle rocking of his hips that works for both of them and sets a maddening pace.

When Greg tries to hurry him, Mycroft takes his wrists and pins them to the backrest, and Greg bucks up helplessly into that perfect heat. Mycroft smiles wickedly and leans down for a kiss that is nothing but teasing distraction.

He pulls away again and Greg makes a very undignified sound and presses his face into that waistcoat in front of him. The fine wool is almost cool against his skin and only slightly rough against his lips. He drags his face up and Mycroft lets him nuzzle his neck just above the shirt collar. The scent is amazing. Greg licks and tells him so.

He matches Mycroft's pace, which does pick up agonizingly slowly. The chair squeaks horribly loud in the silence of the building. If someone would come to this floor, they would hear them, and inevitably see them through the glass walls if they came looking for the source of the noise.

Mycroft lets one of Greg's hands go to stroke his own cock and Greg reaches up to draw him into a kiss again. Mycroft comes on Greg's shirt and he follows a few moments later. 

They're panting into each other's mouth for a few seconds, then Mycroft gets up on unsteady legs and leans heavily against a file cabinet. Greg slumps down and rubs his thigh against the pins and needles prickling there. Doesn't stop him from grinning stupidly.

"So you're leaving the country," he says. More or less just to say anything.

"Yes." Mycroft is already straightening his tie. "I didn't want to go for a whole week without saying a word."

"Ah." Greg watches him as he rounds the desk and cleans up with a tissue he pulled from his jacket pocket. There's something strangely vulnerable about Mycroft, when he is like this. Less than perfect. "For an eloquent bloke like you that wasn't much talking."

Mycroft smiles at that. He's fastening his trousers, then sits down to pull socks and shoes back on. "I could tell you what to do next time," he offers. "In detail."

Greg grins at him.

Mycroft stands, he tugs here and there, runs a hand through his hair and somehow manages to look like he hasn't had sex only minutes before.

"Impressive," Greg says.

"Thank you." 

They stand there for a long moment, maybe Greg should tidy up, but he can't be arsed right now, to be quite honest. 

"Well, I have to-"

"You can call me." 

They both stop and Mycroft nods at Greg, prompting him to speak first. 

"When you're away. Any time and you don't need a reason, you know? Just call me. If you want."

Mycroft looks at him for a long moment as if he'd said something truly puzzling, then settles on "Thank you" again.

Then he's gone and Greg thinks belatedly that he should have kissed him goodbye.


End file.
